


In lieu of flowers

by Niullum



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Bruce Wayne Feels, Cute Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, He is absolutely adorable, Humorous Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kid Tim Drake, Tim speaks in the language of music theory, no beta we die like robins, no capes AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26779564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niullum/pseuds/Niullum
Summary: Bruce Wayne finds a small child playing with the family’s antique piano after a Gala.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 53
Kudos: 442





	In lieu of flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello :)
> 
> These past two months have been difficult and painful for my mental health and I think that has also reflected in my writing. Sorry about that. I'm not 100% happy with the way it turned out, but writing is hard. I hope you can still enjoy it 💕
> 
> Title is from the poem "In lieu of flowers" by Shawna Lemay. It's a poem that portrays grief in a beautiful way when someone passes away. Many thanks to [sElkieNight60](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60) for helping me with the music theory aspect! <3

Bruce could listen to the soft _tick-tock_ sound coming from the ancient Grandfather’s clock. The truth was that Bruce didn’t remember what was exactly the history behind the clock, or how it ended up there. All he knew was that it was old.

If Bruce had to take a guess, he would probably say it was a few decades old, probably from his ancestors.

He grew up seeing it. He’d even played with it when he was younger, whenever Alfred wasn’t there to supervise him. If his brain served him well, he also had memories of his sons playing hide and seek with it. Hiding behind the clock as they muffled their giggles, while he tried to find them.

A sad smile flickered across his face at the reminder. He briefly glanced at the clock for sentimentality’s sakes before returning to his business. Bruce hummed as his eyes went back to the clothes, waiting to be picked up that would hopefully help him conceal the _—never-ending, always there present_ —grief with an elegant three-piece suit.

Just as he was finishing, a thought crossed his mind. A sudden thought, that made him still on the spot. _Ditch the event and go back to bed._

It was tempting.

 _Oh_ , it was very tempting because Bruce _hated_ Galas. He dreaded them with every inch of his heart. He would rather do anything else instead of dressing up and having to reply to the same boring questions from the same people.

Having to look at their faces and hear their faked _“I’m so sorry for your loss”_ apologies from their mouths or even the whispers behind his back about what happened to his son.

Bruce _hated every_ part of it because he knew Jason would have never wanted that.

The squeezing ache in the center of his chest reappeared at the reminder of his son. Bruce hunched in response. He raised his hands to the well-tailored jacket and counted to ten, anything to not let those feelings re-open, but the pain blossomed and wasted no time in spreading like wildfire.

His breath hitched because it hurt. The thought of Jason _hurt._ He closed his eyes and tried to dispel the memories—the red tape, the piece of cardboard attached to his toe, or the thick white plastic bag—but it was hard because it was Jason.

_Jason, his son, who loved to read and write and-_

The pain got worse.

He cursed under his breath.

Had he taken his medication? He swore he’d taken it this afternoon...

“Master Bruce,” said a familiar voice, and just like that, his train of thoughts stopped. He opened his eyes and saw that it was no other than Alfred which, judging by the small frown, Bruce had the impression someone had spilled the expensive wine on the floor, again.

“Alfred,” Bruce greeted him but his voice sounded too tired and exhausted. He could almost imagine Jason going _old man you need a nap._ He cleared his throat. "Is everything alright?"

“The rest of your guests are already waiting for you,” Alfred said and raised one eyebrow when he caught sight of his unbuttoned jacket. He frowned in disapproval. "I thought you were ready Master Bruce.”

“I know,” Bruce replied, and let Alfred fuzz over him. He'd long learned it was better not to fight with him.

“I talked to Dick tonight.”

“You did?” Bruce asked, ignoring the guilt that soon followed him. Ever since Jason's funeral, they hadn't talked for a while; Dick had moved to Blüdhaven and was focusing on his career while Bruce… “How is he?”

“There’s a case that needs his attention, but he will arrive as soon as he finishes it.”

Bruce hummed. They didn’t speak for a while, both too engrossed with their thoughts, until Alfred broke the silence.

“ _Jason_ would have been very proud of you Master Bruce,” he spoke softly. “You know how much this fundraiser meant for him.”

“Why would he, Alfred?” Bruce asked, no louder than a whisper with his hands fisted. His chest began to ache again, but he ignored it. “It’s my fault he’s dead."

* * *

Bruce drowned the memories with champagne. Cracked jokes and plastered a fake smile, danced to whoever may want to, while the pain in his chest worsened. Kept pleasant talk to avoid the pain that came in waves, each one more overwhelming than the previous one, when he caught sight of _children_ and _teens_ dancing and joking around.

It _hurt_.

Especially because Jason could have turned thirteen this summer. He endured throughout all the Gala the sadness, grief, and agony that came from not having his son by his side anymore.

Except that just as Bruce was about to go to sleep he realized something.

* * *

There was a _sound_ , somewhere in the manor.

It resonated through the rooms—some left untouched and covered by cotton white sheets to protect it against the dust—and reverberated through the walls. It echoed until he could only hear the faint traces of a melody.

Strange, considering it had been _hours_ since the Gala ended.

Needless to say, it made a chill crept up to his spine. His eyes sharpened as he inspected the long corridor with great care. The alarm had signaled an intruder was lurking on the first floor of the manor, but it hadn’t been able to pinpoint _where_ exactly.

Every step was carefully placed and just in case, was a knife hidden under his belt. His mind, on the other hand, kept replaying the last message of Alfred’s who had reassured him that every guest had left the Gala.

Then it all stopped.

Silence reigned through the place until the desolation and lifeless feeling began to crawl back. To the point were Bruce stopped midway, and wondered if this all had been a dream in the first place.

A figment of his imagination.

A side-effect of the medication.

Or even his delusional self, still attached to the ghosts of the past. He turned around, with all intentions of going back. All while ignoring the pulsating disappointment and frustration.

A feeling he was quite familiar at this point.

But then he heard it. A melody. Could even be described as haunting, in Bruce‘s opinion. He spun around and walked closer to the source until he stood in front of the wooden door.

Someone was playing the piano.

Who? His mind though, his hand's millimeters away from the doorknob. His eyes ignored the messy _Jason was here_ carved out letters in the left corner of the door. At the count of three, he opened it.

* * *

“Hello,” a voice said, startling the child called Tim. A small _eep!_ a sound escaped from his mouth as Tim quickly removed his hands that were previously holding the D# with gusto.

He spun around and caught a glimpse of a tall man standing right next to the door. Tim frowned. He had the same expression his nanny made when his parents stated they would be leaving soon.

The child took a small step back, his finger aching to press the keys again.

“Hi,” The kid murmured and kept pressing more keys until he realized the man was talking to him. Tim tried to zoom in the conversation to catch at _least_ some words.

“...alright?” The man said with a smile that looked too tight. Painful. Wrong. _Uh_. “You seem kind of lost.”

Tim pondered what to reply.

“I’m not lost,” Tim answered matter-of-factly. He’d memorized perfectly well the first floor. He pressed another key and hummed. Not right enough. His fingers danced around the minor key, looking for the right one. “I am currently taking a break.”

“Break?” The man echoed with his eyebrows raised.

“A break from the people. It’s…,” Tim trailed off not knowing how to exactly say _less loud here_ without offending someone. Instead, he opted to say, despite how much it bothered him to say it. “They’re not efficient.”

Tim pressed another key and his face lighted up. Yes, that's the one.

Tim opened his mouth and blurted out.

"You sound like a B minor scale."

The man went _“oh”_ , but it was a _different_ sound. Gentle, not mocking. Not like Dad. Or not like Mom who would always snap at him. Nice, Tim though. The stranger’s eyes relaxed. His gaze became slightly unfocused as if he was searching for something.

Tim looked around, trying to see what the man was searching for, but he found nothing. He frowned. There was nothing special in this room. Only a vase and too many photographs attached to the wall, apart from the wonderful piano. The adult looked at him _strangely_. But there was no finger-snapping and no roll of eyes. Eventually, Tim decided to speak when he gathered enough courage.

“I’m Tim Drake,” he introduced himself with an elbow bump. Then he explained when the adult looked at him dumbfounded. “I don’t like handshakes.”

“Hello Tim,” the other warmly replied. “I’m Bruce,” a beat before he added this time more softly. ”Your parents must be worried about you.”

Tim touched another key, this time more grave.

The reply came easy and natural.

“I know they won’t,” he said and shrugged. Before Bruce could say anything, Tim went back to press another key. "They’re minor seconds and major sevenths.”

* * *

It was strange interacting with a child after so many months. Less painful than he could have imagined, considering the circumstances. Funny how the house stopped feeling so vacant and empty with a child grasping his hand. The child (Tim) got lost while looking for a bathroom.

Since Tim’s house was next door, Bruce decided to walk him home.

They left at 10:10 P.M exactly. Not one minute less or more. The walk was pleasant as Bruce listened to how the young child babbled about numbers, colors, and music theory while skipping and avoiding the cracks and lines of the sidewalk.

In-depth explanations on why you should always like paired numbers. Why minor scales sounded sad, major scales sounded happy, and dissonant harmonies sounded harsh. It was hard saying goodbye, and even more, returning to his home. He didn’t even manage to open the door without his eldest son greeting him with a hug.

“A movie?” Dick (only son, only _living_ son because he’d failed. Failed so hard in protecting the ones he loved the most, his other son was buried in a tight box six feet under) asked with a smile once they were reaching the living room, inching the bowl of popcorn towards him.

 _Are you okay?_ went unsaid and Bruce had to blink twice, to stop thinking that in a few more minutes, someone would run down the stairs with a shout of _it’s my time for movie night you, Dick,-_

“Alfred told me you wanted me to visit,” Dick added when Bruce finally sat with him. There were a few more expression lines on his face. “Kori says hi, by the way.”

“Okay,” Bruce murmured and didn’t comment on how his eldest rested his head against his chest when they both sat and watched whatever thing Dick put on.

“Okay,” Dick echoed and wrapped his arms tightly around him. "It will be okay."

* * *

Sunday arrived with the weekly visit to his son’s grave. He arrived at the cemetery, careful to not meet the eyes of any passenger in case they wanted to talk, and walked through the row of tombstones—some filled with moss and others broken on the ground as thorns, weeds, and tree roots grew around them—while his hand clutched a bit tighter the small bundle of flowers he'd brought along.

His feet stopped at the familiar patch of grass.

“Hello, Jason. It’s been a while,” Bruce said, placing the flowers in his son’s grave. For some reason whenever he visited him Bruce never found what to say. He eventually settled for. "I missed you, chum."

A breeze was his only response. He sat down and took out a small book but he stopped before he could read out loud. A thought crossed his mind and the book almost slipped from his grasp.

Eight months.

It had been eight months since Jason passed. Thirty-four weeks. Two hundred and forty-three days since Bruce got the call and to deal with the news of his son’s death. Evenings spent signing paperwork, calling lawyers, translators, and ambassadors, just to bring his son home.

To let him rest once and for all.

“I met a kid the other day, and it reminded me of you. Very cute kid if I say so, I-,” He cleared his throat, and ignored how sentimental and ridiculous he must look like. Jason couldn’t hear him. Realistically speaking he wasn't even there. The only thing resting there were his remains, or well, what they managed to recover from the _accident_.

_But that's not the point, isn't it?_

He shook his head and chuckled sadly, raising the book cover to the stone. He wiped whatever tears managed to escape. “It’s the newest book by Stephen King. I have the feeling you would like this.”

And so, Bruce began to read out loud. Even as his voice would break between paragraphs, or when a tear smudged a page. He read and read until Dick came to fetch him for lunch.

* * *

He spent the rest of the afternoon wallowing in his grief, his eyes fixed to the window that led outside. His mind was almost absent, too focused on his thoughts to notice Alfred entering the room.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred announced with a brief knock on the door. It took a lot to turn his head and look at his eyes. “You have a visitor.”

“A reporter?” Bruce asked, tiredly rubbing his eyes. “I told the press I didn’t want any question and yet-”

“There’s no reporter sir,” Alfred said. Then he added, “I have a feeling you may want to see him.”

It was no other than the same child (small height, black hair, and blue piercing eyes) from yesterday, standing in the living room.

His mind immediately went blank.

“Hi, Mr. Wayne!” Tim said with a grin, clasping his hands. ” I found a way to fix your problem.”

Bruce stared at him.

“What problem?”

“Your problem,” Tim said.

“Okay,” Bruce said awkwardly, all while internally thinking how to even approach this. Why was Tim even here? Surely he must have gotten lost again. “Are your parents…?”

“They’re on a trip. Somewhere between France. But that one is a guess, I think, because they’ve been wanting to visit Argentina for some time, and...did you know that Argentina is the eighth-largest country in the world? I didn’t! But Mrs. Mac told me the other day and,“ Tim blabbered and then stopped as if he’d remembered something important. He shook his head. “Anyways that’s not why I came here, Mr. Wayne.”

A pause as Tim took a deep breath and started.

“You see,” the kid said, dropping his backpack to the floor and taking out a notebook full of doodles on the nearest table.

He pointed at the black dots and glanced back at him, and stated. “You’re a B minor scale.”

Then Tim scribbled more dots and notes.

“Minor keys are opposed to the major key,” he said, swiftly followed by more doodles. Bruce watched how Tim poked his tongue out, deeply concentrated as he colored the circle with a black pen. “And it's perceived by many like something...,” he trailed off and did a vague hand gesture. “ _Sad._ You sound _sad_ Mr. Wayne.”

A click of tongue.

“And being sad is not healthy in the long run,” Tim crossed his arms and added. ”My mom said so, and I believe her.”

“A wise woman indeed,” Alfred mindfully added as he entered the room, setting down a tray with tea and biscuits. “We share the same sentiment.”

“Uh-huh,” Bruce replied while watching how Tim drew a sad face for clarification. More doodles of keys appeared seconds later. “See?”

Bruce nodded, barely holding back the smile.

“The major keys are present by nature. Therefore, it is interpreted as normal behavior, a happy day in our lives, 'cause that's what we expect to happen. So, we need to turn you into a major key, Mr. Wayne.”

Then Tim crossed them with an “X”. Bruce opened his mouth, but Tim got first.

“It is not as easy to go from B minor to B major,” He said apologetically. “See B minor is the relative minor to D major, and B majors relative minor is G#. Shifting from B major to B minor is hard and a complex process is called parallel key modulation. Therefore, the first thing we need to do is-”

And for the first time in many months as he listened to Tim, his heart didn’t ache at all.

* * *

_“He’s adorable,”_ Dick mouthed behind the kid’s back as Tim began to explain the  circle of fifths while Alfred served him tea. _“Where did you...? Wait-”_

There was a slight pause, and this time Dick added through squinted eyes. “Did you kidnap him?”

Bruce blinked.

 _“Bruce,”_ Dick hissed out, throwing hands. “You can’t just _kidnap_ people _.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you all have a wonderful day! 💖


End file.
